


that stupid ache

by colectiva



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Language, Sexual Content, Smoking, alludes to book 3 demo spoilers, i could probably get away with an M rating but there's one cringe line in there for my own amusement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28834140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colectiva/pseuds/colectiva
Summary: the detective contemplates lighting a cigarette after a night with bobby, and contemplates her rationale behind it.followed by a tense conversation between adam and olivia.
Relationships: Detective/Adam du Mortain, Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Kudos: 41





	that stupid ache

**Author's Note:**

> the way i started typing this after a conversation with adamsdimples regarding how kissing bobby in book 2 unlocks new levels of drama for our detectives.  
> i love a messy exes storyline, especially when a new challenger enters the arena. will this be the last “detective makes a gross error by sleeping with bobby” fic i write? Nope.  
> thinking this takes place sometime after the recent book 3 demos.  
> Barely edited.

**It must be five years since she had her last cigarette.**

The building’s bricks are cold. She feels it even through the material of her shirt as she leans her full weight against them.

Even in the height of summer, with the sun’s strength in full force, her apartment block offers her a brief break from the heat.

Olivia turns over the carton in her hands for what feels like the hundredth time. She inspects the large warning label, the barcode, the smooth feel of the glossy packaging. The overwhelming scent of tobacco ⎼ woody, tangy, mossy ⎼ every time she lifts the lid. 

She doesn't even recognise the brand, and it’s definitely not her usual pick, but she got to the till and pointed haphazardly to a random box behind the cashier without a second thought. 

But, whatever, it’s in her hands now and she has to decide if she wants one. 

It’s odd⎼ she hasn’t been tempted to light one in so long, even with Mason constantly hiding behind a cloud of smoke. 

And, somehow, all it takes is one night with her bothersome ex (who always sets her teeth on edge) and she’s running her fingers along the neat row of filtres. 

She’s never been a chainsmoker, no. More or less something she dabbled in during social events while at university. When all her friends would huddle under their coats in the freezing winter and they’d have to shout over the booming music spilling from the house party they just stumbled out of. 

A respite from the insanity, a sweet head rush that never failed to calm her⎼ something that kept her hands and mind busy when things became _too much_.

Anyway, Olivia stopped altogether after _the incident_ and taking smoke breaks at the academy proved more trouble than they were worth. 

It’s not like it was hard to quit. 

_No_.

She taps the carton and three jostle out of their perfect formation, slipping one in between her fingers. 

Olivia twirls it between thumb and index, examining the faded orange tipping paper. 

_Should she_?

She brings it under her nose, laying it right above her cupid’s bow, and inhales.

Her eyes flutter shut, blocking out the summer glare, and focusing on, what she can only describe as: _nicotine cognizance._

 _Stupid_ , is what she is.

Sober. She was completely sober when she drove over to Bobby’s apartment. 

Sober. When she knocked on his door and he opened it with a confused look on his annoyingly handsome face.

Sober. As the words: “Does your offer for comfort still stand?” leave her mouth and he tugs her inside⎼ lips finding hers so fast it’s almost embarrassing how easy they slip into a... _predictable_ rhythm. 

It was tactical, really. 

If she wanted to drive away from him, his apartment, her bad decisions, as fast as possible...she _needed_ to be sober. 

It wasn’t _the best_ sex she’s had ⎼ not in her life, and not with Bobby for that matter. She’ll afford him that much of a compliment. 

But this time around, _she should have just stayed home with her hand inside her sweatpants._

Olivia lightly knocks her head repeatedly against the apartment building.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

Bobby remembers her, what she likes, which is the only reason she stays...on his couch...on his bed...and, _oh...yeah_ , the kitchen counter.

She hasn’t been in this bed, this couch ⎼ and _okay, yes, the wall by his bookcase too_ ⎼ in nearly three years. Like a frustratingly, completely evitable relapse.

And he’s always been such a talker too. She didn’t mind it as much back in the day, but when she’s trying to get out of her head⎼ when she’s trying to get... _certain thoughts_ cleared⎼ it’s too distracting.

Bobby folds her over his lap, stares up at her with parted mouth, panting and groaning as she rises and falls against him⎼ chasing the high, the white noise, the blissful void of _nothing_.

“Yeah? You like that?” he leaves a trail of wet kisses down her chest. “You want more?”

“Bobby, _shut up_ ,” Olivia manages between a mouthful of moans, setting a faster pace⎼ hoping speed will keep him busy.

It doesn’t.

“ _Fuck_ , Liv,” she hates that nickname, no one calls her that. “You’re so wet. Whose pussy is this, huh? Tell me.”

She clamps a hand over his mouth and shakes her head, breathless. “Bobby, I swear to god, I will leave you high and dry if you keep this shit up. _No talking_.”

The detective doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so willing to comply⎼ 'obedient' isn’t a word she’d ever use to describe Bobby.

Then she’s face down on his bed, burying her cries into his sheets and hoping they’ll muffle her obscene noises. They’ll just inflate his already monumental ego.

Her eyes are screwed shut, face pinched as she nears the limit, and she’s _so close_ _⎼_

Nothing. She wants to think of nothing. A clear head is all she craves, so maybe she _can_ fuck this feeling out of her system. This fear. This hold. 

Maybe she can empty this container of overflowing thoughts of him, once and for all and⎼

 _Him_.

 _Him_ and his infuriatingly guarded expressions. The noncommittal responses to her questions. His palpable annoyance to her insubordination. The _quick-catch-it-before-it-fades_ softening of his face, his eyes, when he’s gazing at her. 

_Adam_.

She recalls the mumble that moves the earth beneath her, binding her only by fingertips tracing her bottom lip. 

It’s cruel.

To make her hope. To make her think that he could possibly⎼ that she could be⎼

“Are you planning on smoking that?”

Olivia snaps her eyes open, then winces as the sunlight unforgivingly filters through. She cranes her head to the side where the voice⎼ _his voice_ _⎼_ comes from. 

Adam slinks into a nearby shadow, standing along the same wall of the building she’s leaning against. He’s assessing her openly, takes in her dishevelled state and frowns.

It must be weird for him to see her out in the open without a meticulously planned outfit, without a single crease in a fresh-pressed shirt and skirt. Instead, standing and cradling an unlit cigarette underneath her nose, in sweatpants and a worn shirt she uses as a pyjama. She hasn’t looked in a mirror, but she’s certain her lips and teeth are still tannin-stained. 

Next to him, in his tight-fitting blue shirt, aviators hanging off the collar, and wrinkle-free trousers, looking clean-cut and _beautiful_ , she’s a mess.

She’s a mess because of him.

“I don’t know yet,” she says and shifts her focus to the cigarette now settled in between her fingers.

She wonders...can he smell Bobby on her? The bottle of cheap wine she picked up on her way home along with the pack of smokes?

“You were supposed to call last night,” he does little to mask the frustration in his voice. His arms cross over his chest, shirt struggling and stretching around the muscles there.

Olivia says nothing, avoids meeting his eye at all costs.

Is that shame rearing its ugly head? Is that what’s making her chest this tight?

During the beat of silence, she remembers last night. Slamming her apartment door shut and letting out the loudest: “ _Fuck!_ ” before the sobbing starts.

The thumping of the bass bouncing off the walls as she plays that Selena Quintanilla song on repeat. How she crumpled into a heap on her couch, singing through shuddering teary-gasps and mouthfuls of wine straight from the bottle. 

Because her plan had not worked. It turns out she’s unable to get him out of her mind.

She’s curious why her neighbours didn't come knocking...or ring her colleagues to send someone round to check on her.

“I was...busy.”

This response only aggravates Adam further and she can see him visibly tense from her peripheral. 

“Detective Mendoza, if you don’t want us setting up a post in your flat, then I suggest at least meeting the minimum required of you.”

He says one or two more sentences more, something about Trappers or other. All reprimanding her behaviour and her lack of _‘conscientiousness’_ , but her attention is fully captured by the sound of his voice. Deep, silvery, and enunciating each vowel clearly. 

“⎼I won’t forget again,” Olivia interrupts.

“You cannot just _forget_ ,” he begins, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s to keep you _safe_ , Olivia.”

The detective frowns and turns to face him at the use of her name. His brow is tightly furrowed, offering her one of those trademark stern expressions⎼ upper lip curling into a disappointed sneer. 

She’s too tired (and just a smidge hungover) to be having this conversation. Olivia doesn’t want to argue with him, not after last night. There’s still too much to process and not enough time left in her day to run away from it all.

“I’m sorry.”

It almost bowls him over. Adam opens his mouth to counter, but draws a blank⎼ _an apology?_ No, she imagines on his way over to her apartment he must have been steeling himself for a heated argument with her.

She sighs, shrugging. “You’re right. There’s no excuse. I’ll call when I get home, or when I get to work.”

Adam’s frown deepens. Maybe he senses that something is... _off_. Maybe he knows? Maybe he _does_ smell Bobby on her…and the generous heaping of self-loathing that comes with it. Whatever thought begins to cloud his expression, he never voices it. 

Olivia sighs and offers a forced smile. “Thanks for⎼uh...dropping by to...check on me?” _Or chastise her_ , because in Adam’s world they’re synonymous.

He nods one sharp and resolute tip of his head, crossing his arms once more. She flickers her attention away from him and he follows.

Something about the action makes the bitter twist in her gut sharpen. He can’t even look at her in the silence of their conversations⎼ if he’s not laying down some criticism on her shortcomings, she might as well not be present at all.

Olivia inhales sharply. 

She has to calm down, she _just_ diffused the bomb that was about to go off between them. She is in no mental state to lean into him or to have a round two of: “You can’t make me feel this way and give nothing.”

 _Ugh_. Just the memory of the words leaving her mouth makes her want to light the cigarette in her limp grip. Olivia doesn’t recognise herself anymore. 

The part of her that’s still raw and disparaged by him tells her to say it. And to say it clearly so he picks up on every syllable⎼ so he can go back to the warehouse and not have an inkling of a doubt behind its meaning. 

“I’m heading back inside. I need to take a shower,” she moves off the wall, meeting his eye. “I had a... _long_ night.”

Olivia doesn’t wait for his reaction, tucking the cigarette back into its carton, and beeps herself into the building⎼ tossing the pack into a nearby bin.

Maybe just one bad decision at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> lol she didn't even have a lighter! who picked up on that???  
> consider this my practice exercise on fleshing out Olivia some more. In my mind she hid bobby’s glasses before ducking out, for retributive justice reasons.


End file.
